Two old men sat in a village, facing each other under the shade of the huge mahogany tree a few yards in front of the home of one of them. The other man was a visitor from Oku, a town nearby.
All around them, the activities that herald the approach of night to an Eastern Nigerian village went on. The hens, clucking and always cocking a quizzical eye at the fast-setting sun, guided their broods home. Smoke issued from the conically thatched roofs of the surrounding mud huts and the reverberation of the mortar musically beaten with the pestle mixed with the bleating of goats being dragged home.
The village, Eze-ikpa, had only one dusty road running down its entire length, which the villagers proudly called ‘the way’ or, after they’d imbibed some palm wine, ‘the motor-way’. Down this way now came naked children, some eagerly running, some lethargic and a few taking their time, but all bound for home, incredibly dusty and happily tired. Also along this busy thoroughfare came a string of maidens clad in multi-coloured strings of beads, their waterpots balanced on their heads, and their walk springy, their full breasts quivering like the rippling waters of the stream they had just come from.
The two old men sighed simultaneously and the fat, well-kept one, dressed in a priest’s white soutane, his short plump legs crossed, intoned: ‘What heavenly peace!’
The other, dressed only in a loincloth, to whom the scene was familiar and very dear, threw the priest a curious glance. To him, what the priest had said sounded hollow.
‘Why did you say that, Father Matthew?’ he asked in the slow way he had to do things nowadays. ‘Surely this,’ and he waved a gnarled, wrinkled, thin hand at the village scene, ‘doesn’t mean a thing to you. It’s barbarian and heathen.’
Father Matthew’s grave, round face broke into a tolerant smile. He’d always liked Ogbuefi ever since they met three years before. In fact, if a heathen could be called a good man, Ogbuefi was, although a very suspicious and obstinate one.
‘You’ve always doubted my feelings, Ogbuefi. Why is that?’
‘Well,’ drawled Ogbuefi, his throat making wrinkled efforts at drawing at his old clay pipe, ‘you’re the priest of a foreign religion. And, although you’re Ibo, you don’t belong to us any more. You were brought up by foreigners. And you’ve taken to their ways as fish to water. Even your name …’ His voice trailed off into silence.
Father Matthew looked again at the emaciated man in front of him. The breastbone and the ribs were almost piercing the wrinkled ashy-black skin; the stomach was practically non-existent and the legs looked more like matchsticks. The lined, high forehead told a tale of hard work and suffering to scrape a living from the earth; and yet the spirit was not broken, nor the mind as careworn as its exterior.
And for the hundredth time Father Matthew wondered if it was worthwhile converting this man to Christianity, since it might, with its attendant Western materialism destroy, the old man’s peace of mind. Also, he reflected on how he would convince Ogbuefi that the peacefulness, sweet simplicity, sobriety and Christianlike purity of the village life appealed greatly to a priest and even more so to a town dweller.
‘And if you want to convince me,’ continued Ogbuefi, as if he’d never stopped talking, ‘that your feelings are true …’ He coughed for some time and asked: ‘Why do you want us to change our ways?’
This was one of the points they always argued fiercely.
‘So that you’ll enjoy life more,’ said Father Matthew, using that preaching tone which always infuriated Ogbuefi. ‘You’ll agree with me a motorcar and a hospital are two good new things.’
Ogbuefi snorted and mumbled something. He prodded his pipe with a shaky dirty finger as he always did when annoyed. He remembered he owed his life to the priest, but he didn’t like its being used as a lever to change him. If he’d been conscious, he wouldn’t have agreed to be driven to the Onitsha hospital. As it was he couldn’t help himself, and even now he wouldn’t have done anything, since he was under doctor’s orders to take things easy because of a weak heart.
‘Well,’ continued Father Matthew, pulling his soutane over his knees and crossing and uncrossing his legs. ‘Why can’t we also sanction the wearing of clothes, at least for the girls? I’m sure that wouldn’t change …’
‘No!’ said Ogbuefi fiercely. ‘We can’t have that! It’ll breed evil.’ He was already breathing heavily, as he often did nowadays when upset. His thin lips quivered as he continued, ‘It’ll change our ways greatly. Our girls will no longer be safe and …’ He ended up coughing.
‘Now, now, now,’ said Father Matthew soothingly as he patted the sticking-out shoulder blade with a plump hand. ‘I forgot you weren’t to be roused. I shan’t mention it again.’
‘You shouldn’t have mentioned it at all,’ drawled Ogbuefi after he had recovered. ‘Remember the story you told me some time ago. I’m sure you don’t want our girls to do what that woman … what’s her name again? I mean the first woman on earth … remind me of her name, Father …’
‘Eve?’
‘Eve, of course, I’m really getting old. Well, you don’t want my maidens to cover up when they haven’t yet tasted the forbidden fruit!’ There was a twinkle in the old man’s eyes as he drew on his pipe.
Just then his youngest and only unmarried daughter, his pride and mainstay since her mother died a few years ago, came out of their round mud hut. Ogbuefi looked at her with a loving smile that slowly changed into a frown.
‘Erie, come here!’ he called sharply.
The girl walked towards him. She had on, round her slim waist, a big lappa. She was tall, pretty and in full maidenhood. Her bare breasts, as big as oranges, rocked as she moved and her body glowed faintly. She used to walk proudly and haughtily, but was now strangely subdued and shy.
‘How long is it since you came back from the market?’ Ogbuefi asked tersely.
The girl kept her eyes on the ground. She fidgeted with her lappa, her bosom heaving. Father Matthew watched, fascinated.
‘Won’t you answer me, girl? Can’t you look at me?’
After what seemed ages, the girl said in a small voice, ‘I have something to tell you, papa,’ and she turned and fled into the hut.
Ogbuefi got up, cast a venomous glance at the Father, and hobbled after his daughter. He looked so short – and like a wraith.
Father Matthew waited in the darkening gloom. He swivelled his stool to face Ogbuefi’s compound. He wondered what was going on there. He didn’t feel like guessing because he was afraid to know.
Some children came past where he sat, going towards their playing field at the end of the village. It looked as if it was going to be a moonlit night.
Somewhere an owl hooted. Insects began their shrill music; bats, their flight home.
Then Father Matthew saw Ogbuefi hobbling back, and his worst fears were realized. He’d never seen the man look so bowed, so old. And he was hobbling far too fast. What the doctor had said came to Father Matthew’s mind: ‘The next attack will be the last!’
Father Matthew got up. ‘What is it, Ogbuefi? Why do you look so wild? Look, sit down or you’ll have another attack!’
But Ogbuefi brushed aside the plump hands that stretched out to help him. ‘Leave me alone!’ he hissed. ‘I don’t need your help. Erie does! You and your reforms!’
‘But what happened?’ asked Father Matthew, catching the swaying Ogbuefi.
‘She has eaten the forbidden fruit! Oh, my God! And it was one of your teachers!’
‘So, that was why she didn’t undress after she came back from the market,’ said Father Matthew wonderingly.
‘Yes. She’s now ashamed to go naked.’ Then Ogbuefi seemed to revive. He pushed Father Matthew away and said in a stronger voice: ‘Now you’ve seen why I’m against wearing clothes. You see with me, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t think I do,’ said Father Matthew thoughtfully. ‘Agreed it does bring some evil, but …’
But Ogbuefi wasn’t listening. The doctor’s prediction had come true. He’d almost fallen to the ground when Father Matthew caught him again and heard him whisper: ‘… and I thought you had eyes …’
Father Matthew laid him down and made the sign of the cross.
Just then the short African twilight merged into darkness. A sighing cold wind passed by, as if carrying the departed soul on its wings.
Father Matthew shivered and crossed himself. ‘Now for his daughter,’ he murmured. ‘Christianity will give her a new lease of life. It’s the least I can do for the old man.’